Sister Doctor rubbed the back of her neck and grimaced. “I spent so much time setting bones that I could do only a cursory exam of his organs. He is breathing shallowly and with difficulty. The phlegm that runs from his nose is both yellow and bloody. This suggests respiratory troubles. Sister Apothecaire has her own notions about this—”

“To start with the question of the discharge,” began Sister Apothecaire, somewhat overenthusiastically, but Sister Doctor spoke over her.

“Sister Apothecaire can speak presently. I utter no opinion about her…conjectures.”

“The heart?” asked the Superior Maunt, overriding the old tired conflict.

“Working.” Sister Doctor grunted as if in disbelief at her own answer.

“The guts?”

“The word might bewobbly . I suspect an imploded spleen or the like, and septic poisoning. There’s a funny color in the extremities and on certain contusions that I don’t care for at all.”

“What color is that?” asked the Superior Maunt.

Sister Doctor pursed her lips. “Well, I’m a bit overtired. We worked all night, you know, without resting. But I should have said there’s a green tinge to the bruises, ringed with a plum-yellowy margin.”

“Suggestive of internal bleeding, you think…or a disease? Or maybe something else?”

“He may be comatose or he may be brain-dead. I have no way of knowing. Though his heart is good, his color, as I say, is not, so circulation may be failing. The lungs have been compromised severely—whether by a preexisting condition or by some aspect of his adventures I cannot venture an opinion at this time.”

“To conclude—” The Superior Maunt rolled her hand in the air.

“Death by nightfall, maybe tomorrow morning,” said Sister Doctor.

“We could pray for a miracle,” said Nubb. Oatsie snorted.

“Sister Apothecaire will handle treatment,” said Sister Doctor, making it sound as if she thought prayer would be a wiser course.

“Youcould pray for a miracle,” said Sister Apothecaire to Nubb. “I have other work to do.”

“Sister Apothecaire,” said the Superior Maunt. “You have something to add?” Sister Apothecaire pushed her spectacles down her nose, then removed them, huffed upon them, and wiped them clean on the hem of her apron. She was a Munchkin and exhibited the Munchkin farmwife’s passion for hygiene—not a bad attribute for a person in her profession. “It’s all puzzling,” she agreed. “We have made him as comfortable as we could, and as the mercy of our mission requires. With tape we have bound his limbs to splints and shims. Should he live, he may regain some degree of motor function.”

“What does that mean?” asked Oatsie. “Speak clearly to the ignorant. Me.”

“He may be able to sit up, to use his hands, if his nerves are not shot to hell. He may be able to walk, in a fashion; that is unlikely, but as I say we aim for the stars. What is more troubling is the discharge from his membranes. The nose, most obviously, but the other orifices as well. Ears, eyes, anus, penis.”